The Ballad of John and Frodo

Apparently The Beatles, at the height of their powers, were planning to make a film version of The Lord Of The Rings (I think it was John's idea). In the film John was to play Golum, Paul was to play Frodo, Ringo was going to be Sam and George was going to be Ghandelf. Unfortunately those staunch bastards at the Tolkein estate refused to hand over the rights, and as a result we are denied of what may have been, nay, what would have been, the greatest film of all time. Yes, sadly we have to endure those tedious and dull Peter Jackson 'epics' instead. Ah well, life goes on.

A Short on the Way to Briefer Things

I was swinging on some rings and thinking about things.
"How shall I word this plastic bag joke?"
"How shall I make this unclear?"
"How shall I face facts?"
And I fell.

Actually what I meant to say was that I posted a link to that deceptive Bible page for those of you in the know.

God's Wrath Revisited

Sure, it doesn't exactly look like the end. Houses are still standing proud, everybody seems to be here – nothing especially out of the ordinary. But, as we know, looks, and people, can be deceiving. The Word, indeed the Words, can not be disputed. I tried this morning, over toast, and he's right. If there is any doubt left in your mind, this will put the final nail into the crucifix of disbelief.

"People would mock about the last days and not believe."
Uncanny.
"At the time of the end, there would be famines in various places."
That's odd. At the time of the beginning, there was also famine in various places. Come to think of it, there was lots of famine in the middle as well. But what do I know?
"The Gospel must be published in all the world"
Wait a minute, that's not a prophecy! That's an instruction – next.
"People would be taking drugs"
Right again.
"In the last days, people would be hoarding gold and silver."
Then the writer added, "True. It began in the late 1970’s."

"As you go forth in faith to do the work of the Lord, people will persecute you. They may call you names and try to make you feel bad. They may threaten to kill you and make false accusations against you."
Uh oh. This isn't going to be the bed of roses I'd envisaged. They're going to threaten to kill me?

Ho Hum at long last.

The Lemon Tree and All

Yes, luckily that brief chapter has been brought to a close – arguably. But anyway, here I am. It all started, so to speak, with someone, whose identity is unknown to me, and his mouse. Their glorious union, mixed haphazardly with too much spare time, gave rise to a discovery, expected or not, of this quick-loading page we have all come to know (too well). Surprise or joyful relief passed across his – a generalisation of gender, I know – glowing face, as a thought, an idea, popped into his skull. Us dominoes didn't see it coming and we fell about one after another until we all had caught the bug and sought revenge. The great thing about this was that the victims of our revenge were innocents – at least as far as we knew. And on it went.

Soon our attacks grew even more devious until finally I hit upon the idea of counter-fitting that horny holiday-maker and springing his mildly more innocent chatters. Haste clouded foresight. Hindsight saw it coming and attempted to rectify past wrongs – unsuccessfully, of course. And the one who missed the whole boat returned and saw the damage. Anger swelled and revenge was executed – at the right target.

Ho Hum indeed.

In Defence of Mr Dylan

Sparked by recent remarks concerning his voice – "face it, he's got a bad voice" and similar sentiments – I have decided to write an ill-prepared response to set the record straight. Firstly let me start by posing the question: what is a good voice? Frank Sinatra? The latest Idol™ machine? Is that what it's all about? Is a pyrotechnic singer necessarily a good one? No, of course not. Frank Sinatra can go to hell (if he's not there already). Good voices, in my opinion, are unique and powerful ones – it makes no difference whether they can hit a high C or sustain a note with wavering acrobatics. And Bob Dylan has a powerful voice.

Sure, to the casual listener he sounds like a lawnmower having an orgasm, but once you get under the skin of his work you'll discover a unique and amazing vocal style. Just listen to the conviction and raw energy in his voice as he snarls through "Like A Rolling Stone" and the frenetic "Subterranean Homesick Blues". No one could sing those songs better then he could. And believe me, they've tried. His phrasing is masterly. He makes each word come alive and burn with spirit. Cue "Jokerman" and the sensational word-hopping "Brownsville Girl", two of his finest vocal performances (both from the '80s, no less). Those raised on a strict commercial diet are still, unfortunately, instantly repelled when they hear his nasal stylings, and as a result miss out on one the finest songwriters of our time.

His voice is, above all, unique. Hate it or love it, it's still different from everyone else. Would he be better if he had the voice of an angel? No, his voice is part of the whole package, part of his charm, if you will. And also it's extremely iconic; it helped cement his place in popular culture – which wouldn't be quite as prominent (song writing aside) if he had a stock-standard voice.

Arguing about his vocal ability is, in the end, like trying to differentiate the ballads of Tom Waits: futile. Let's just leave it at this: it works.

Covered, Clothed and Over-joyed

"Yes," said I, glancing warily at the clock: 4.oo AM.
And so I began to unwind on the plush couch.
"Now tell me," said I, but in a different voice, "why are you here?"
"Me?" I gasped; I wasn't expecting the question.
"Yes, you," I confirmed.
But aside from that, I decided I needed to sink into code to cover up certain things that didn't flop out right.
"Not in here please," said I sternly.
I listened and lay back down.
"What do you think?" I continued.
"It's very nice. I like the ambiance." I answered, petering into bad French inflection.
I was right as well. The room we were in was certainly nice. I couldn't think up anything visible through the window that wouldn't ruin the mood, though.
"What was wrong with it?" I asked, rapidly changing the subject.
"Haste," I replied simply.
"Elaborate."
"Repetition."
"Keep going."
"Good points lost."
"Uh huh."
"Well, bye."
"Bye."

Ho Hum, Everyone's Pretentious — Not Just Me

Everyone involved with artistic mediums, that is. It is impossible to be an artist and not be pretentious. No one approaches their work thinking that it won't be important (or any good for that matter — I'm excluding some Hollywood directors). And sure, you may argue that it doesn't count as being pretentious if your work actually is important, but that leads me to my next point: subjectiveness.

Yes, subjectiveness ensures that all artists are pretentious. Most people would say that Picasso is a genius, but there still might be a few who'd say he's rubbish — "I mean look, the proportions are all wrong," and so on. To them, Picasso is a pretentious prick. Your work is never going to be brilliant for everyone.

The defining factor in all this is how much pretention your work exudes. If it looks or sounds pretentious, then that is what it will be accused of. The real 'masterpieces' are the ones that hide their prententions.

We all have pretentions to be good! And again I'll say that this should have been prepared better.

Steak Sandwiches for Tea

Eating a grisly, over-done steak wrapped in toasted pseudo-healthy commercial grained bread garnished with those most prolific of condiments: mustard (in this case German) and tomato sauce, I watched a half-naked Raquel Welch clad in glittering rags and sporting a dated frizzled hair cut perform a near-catchy tune with wild erotic high kicks on The Muppet Show.

Who Needs the Comedians?

Unquestionably one of the worst jobs you can have is that of the comedian. Well, obviously I'd rather be a comedian then someone who does actual work, but you get my point. Anyway, when I say "comedian" I do in fact mean "stand-up comedian".

Firstly, the higher percentages of stand-up comedians have material that sounds as though it was all written by the same person — or factory. Their whole personalities in fact are identical. You know what I mean: that sarcastic tone, the wry observations. It's all the same in the end. Then there's the ethnic comedians, the fat comedians and the gay comedians. They're lucky, aren't they? All of their material revolves around their ethnicity, weight and sexual preference. Usually comparisons between the way 'ordinary' white folks do things, and the way they do things. Etcetera, etcetera.

What I hate most about stand-up comedians is the repetition. There are very few comedians who do an entirely different show every night, so whenever I'm watching one I just get the feeling they're trying to remember words, and nothing else. They look as though they don't care what they're saying. As a result, I don't.

Basically I hate the medium. I had better points and arguments, but I forget them now and I'll just end this rubbish here.

Woman of Hurtful Descent

Is, in a place so becoming, there any point — any reason? Miss? Entering the mind, the motivations, of one who takes obvious pleasure in poorly-worded spite is a dangerous game. Indeed one must certainly stoop to their level to garner even a two-word response — a somewhat contrived excuse, I know.

Purposely trying to be hurtful is something hard to understand. I do it regularly, but I at least try to make it slightly vague. You? You? Well, I'm not too sure about you. While your clumsy jabs never actually sting, it is, as has been said on many an occasion, the thought that counts. But considering your country of origin, it's perfectly understandable. And yes, I'm perfectly aware where your tongue lies; but that, as of now, is irrelevant.

An obvious hoax lay at the bottom of this bowl. It, as with my contribution, caused this whole soup to bubble over into an annoying ring-match. At the personal, I did not aim. And it was harmless enough up to a point. But you, with all your worldly-wisdom, decided to satisfy your smallest red third. Again I'll point out that this was all a bit of a giggle for you (and indeed for me — those Bush-esque word creations certainly brought a smile) but there are still some strange things in your skull.

This post, if it ever finds its way to your office, will no doubt add ammunition to your cannon. So I'll stand in the middle of that field and wave a few times until you hit me.

Build Me Up Buttercup: Lust for Love

A cruel pair of eyes — two cruel pairs of eyes — stare mercilessly, hollowly, out on a spacious lot of flickering eateries. In hands — their hands — lies a long, thin, sickening rod with a small, taught ball of mechanical wires sending signals — messages — to the little, cruel interface on its hilt. Their thrown, their florid chair drenched in pleasure's waste holds a steady, clear view over the field.

The two once ne'r do wells marvel and sweat and think. How, in such a place — in such a horrid ball —, did they, two forever strandeds, find their other? God's Will.

A parting of the clouds, it must have been; a bolt from the blue. 'Neath those extra eyes and battery faces grew a wind of forgiveness from Him. A wind of validation. The begging, the bedtime pleas paid off. All is not Afterlife quite yet, though.

First, foremost, divide the seas. They did. Spread and smudge God's Will — your word. They have.

Casting, luring; a line flies across and scrapes the concrete footpath. It moves, it slides, it grates and bumps on the concrete. It hangs, it stops. In a doorway, a small, insignificant doorway, it catches and stops. And it stops where?

A greasy, hairy hand plants a greasy, hairy finger on an oily red button and sends a bright magazine into the small, insignificant doorway where it catches and stops in a tiled — black and white — kitchen. It is picked up and thought of by half a person. It is read with a surprised grin. The person, of which there is only half, pulls a chair out from 'neath a table — his table. The chair itself, made of wood, is exactly, to the tea, like every single other chair in the lot. The person is thankful.

A green sticky light flashes with a steady monotonous pounding. The reel is wound by the greasy, hairy hand whose owner is enjoying early, inoffensive abortion from the speechless other. As every last tail disappears down a throat, half a person gets carelessly dragged across the concrete lot. He reaches the steep bank and is brought up into a plunging glass box.

Eyes pressed, armoury raised, the person watches. Two figures bend, and twist, and slide, and grease. The person, the no-timer, arms his arms. Two figures scream, call, cry, shout. The person, slipping regret far below, throbs and stops. Two figures stop. The glass box is denied briefly of its lid as a hand reaches in and avoids the avoiding, hunched person. The figure presses their remains against the glass. Half a person involuntarily wakes his third.

It was meant to be.

Weekly Regrets and Greetings: Dumb-Arse Version

Hugh is a wanker.

Good Ol' Cross-Promotion

In the spirit of an arm for an arm and all that, I'll advise you — with significant justification — to pay a visit to
http://spaces.msn.com/members/themushy/ which is yet another blog (of great quality) and it relates to my Things About People post. Go to it now and enjoy it. His writing is almost the polar opposite of mine and is very compelling, which makes it an interesting read for me — so click the link and read it now!

Now let me get back to the monument.

Weekly Regrets and Greetings

And so, having comprehensively numbed the ball — which was now in a knot —, he, that is to say me, left the painful apologetics and blushed out of the room. He, that is to say, he — not me, then broke what may have inhabited here, had it not first repelled itself (himself) carefully across the grass. But, and with all common curtesy firmly rooted 'neath my breast, things, as they seemed at the time, unwind and, in some instances, lose all their fog. In that instance — as in the one I just mentioned — the world, as a collective face, turns and decides unfairly with the aid of ignorant retrospect: we should all hold hands and roll across the mountains.

Fashions of Haste

The Fashion of Haste — of randomness — is a plague across the net. A quick overview of Internet animation will tell you this. It seems like there is one person who makes every single cartoon online; and by now, surely, the joke has worn thin — well, it was never funny in the first place.

Irrelevance seems to have become a substitute for wit — or indeed any form of thinking.
"I don't need to think up any jokes, I'll just make a banana pop his head on screen and say 'I'm a banana'." Etcetera, etcetera.

I may be looking — or not looking, as the case may be — in all the wrong places, but I am yet to find a funny web animation. (Please note I'm excluding those made by already established animators.)

And it's the word that describes this phenomenon that is the worst of all: Random. It makes me shudder every time I hear it.
"How Random," they all say as an egg bounces around in Flash.
This is true, but uncanny in terms of Orange Milkshakes. Truth? I hear you cry. Truth? What about the Monkeys? What about the Chickens? Never fear.

Things About People

I hate things about people — specifically films. Don't you just hate those films — those characters studies — that explore interconnecting relationships with dull medium shots and boring locales? Don't get my wrong, I'm not some film illiterate who needs ten cuts a seconds and explosions to keep me interested, I just can't stand independent cinema nowadays. Obviously the other end of the spectrum is utter rubbish as well — but for this attack, I'll ignore them.

For one, I don't see the point of making these sorts of films if they are all about the actors and their relationships. This is basically because it is a waste of the film medium. Can't you do the same thing — but better — with a novel? And if you're an actor nut, why don't you just go to the theatre? I couldn't give a stuff about real people; I don't want to see their downward spiral milked out over two laborious hours in a cinema full of skivvies.

Think 2001: A Space Odyssey. Could any other medium do it justice? No. Yes, I know it was a book (which I haven't read) but I can comprehensively say that you couldn't ever get the same experience as the film. Words would ruin it, if anything. This is the best example of a film using the medium to its full potential — and not wasting it. In fact no single film has used the medium better then Kubrick did in this.

I'm not about to turn this into a 'film died with the introduction of sound' discussion, because that is not true, but nevertheless silent cinema was cinema in its purist sense. Buster Keaton's The General, for instance, is another example of a film that would only work as a film. You could never write those gags down; you could never paint those gags; you could certainly never listen to those gags. They only worked on the screen (its ambition would leave theatre in its wake thanks to the cross-country train journey). So if you have some bleak story about a couple of doomed lovers — or drug addict criminals for that matter, write a book and make it easier for us to ignore you. Alternatively, if you can't write, fuck off.

Bring on the first dimension, I say. And don't get me started on black-comedies.

An Importance Which Flows Above

Sigh. Why did they have to invent the term "art"?

Hugh and the Dead-Beats

Cruising 'round town under the wheel. I leapt out on to my two runner-equipped, sock-loaded feet on to the footpath and into, deeply into, walking speed. I lurched forward, towards a hazy, browed figure and hastily replaced his scowl with surprise. The directions he gave me were clear, and concise — I thanked him. I asked if he had a match — he did not. We stood in silence and waited for me to speak. But his answers were monosyllabic and that pissed me off somewhat. The delay annoyed us — him most of all; you could tell he was incredibly uncomfortable.

He looked like he thought he meant something and I meant nothing. He went over to the vending machine and bought a Paddle Pop. This was just an excuse, though, 'cause he just stared at it until it arrived.

The Knotted Response.

"Meh."
"Whatever."
"I don't care."

The Knotted Squelch

The Knotted Squelch buried deep in the ball — not as deep as others, but twice as tall.
The Knotted Squelch slips across the lawn, eyes darting wildly, clothes all torn.

The Knotted Squelch kneels 'neath the gutters. The Knotted Squelch runs with others in the daisies.
The Knotted Squelch accepts the ball when it's thrown. Whenever it's thrown.
The Knotted Squelch flies opportunities to the shore. The Knotted Squelch doesn't want to play anymore.

The Knotted Squelch and the Archaeologist undo each other.
The Knotted Squelch doesn't hide well.

The Building Blocks and Agains

Working carefully above the streets, suspended on a beam, holding pillar-box red lunch box, I hammered a nail in to a tiny hole with my wood and metal hammer. Every time a got tired — which was every so often — I would open my pillar-box red lunch box and pluck a green grape from therein. One of these was just enough to inspire me to pound the nail further into the hole — so I understandably brought many grapes to work each and every day.
It was as I was breaking the thin piece of skin on my twenty-second grape that something — or rather — happened. It was, to be mildly more specific, a something caused by a someone. And this someone was a man — of sorts.
"Hallo?" he said with spirited indifference, peering around an obnoxious support.
"Hello," I answered with casual disregard.
"Hello."
"Hello."
We nodded idiotically at each other for a moment. I started to hammer away again.
"You know," he began, "you should use the other hammer for that sort of stuff." He indicated the smaller one with a subtle movement of his shoulder.
"No," I said. "I'm not going to bother wasting time changing hammers; I just use the big one for everything."
"But it will be quicker, and easier."
"The time I lose knocking in nails is the same as the time I gain by not fiddling around with hammers."
"How hard is it to swap hammers? It's right there!"
"Well I'm not changing now," I said. "Not when I've already worked up a rhythm."
He shrugged.
"You know what?" I asked.
"No I don't," he replied.
"That's a nice cloud."
"Which one?"
"That one."
"Oh, that one."
"Yes. It could be the greatest cloud to ever float past my eyes."
"How do you know it's moving? It could be the Earth."
"In that case you could always see clouds moving; and we don't move that fast anyway."
"How do you know?"
"I don't."
He shrugged again.
"In fact it could be the greatest cloud to every be visaged by Earthlings," I said.
"Don't you mean visioned?"
"No, visaged is right."
"But they say invisioned."
"Yes they do; it's wrong though. You're actually meant to say envisaged."
"But it's in the Dictionary."
"That's only because so many people have got it wrong."
"Still, neither visioned nor visaged works in that context — I'm not even sure if they're real words."
"I know, I was just being silly."
"Uh huh."
I began climbing.
"Where are you going?"
"Up."
Once I was satisfied, I sat down and began peering at the people below. They were nothing more then moving dots, and if anything my new position just made them more unidentifiable, but I still opened my pillar-box red lunch box and retrieved a handful of Paddle Pops. After a while, I convinced myself that two people I know were about to walk directly beneath me and I should throw my Paddle Pops towards them — and I did. I was so far up that I could not see if my aim was true. This disappointed me immensely, so I threw one at a much closer target.
The next year I believe I had a fresh cup of steaming brown at home and enjoyed it more then any other.

The Smiths Never Said It Best

And, though the small ball of stimulating talk thinks otherwise, I do believe in romance. I just don't believe in trolling around bars and chatting up women (he probably doesn't either). This is mainly attributed to my paranoia and laziness — and of course my good ol' insecurities. Yes, I'm waiting for some willing, mildly attractive woman to come knocking at my door and save me the bother of trying. Hopefully when The Onions become the next bag of brief success, I'll be fighting them off with a stick (ha!).

Anyway, I do really want to get married someday — perhaps even start another Nuclear family. I am certainly not going to swear celibacy, move to Sunset Boulevard and commute daily with Nancy Sinatra via email.

How can people commit adultery? Especially those who still love their spouses. If I get married — and believe me I want to — I will hold on to her and never let go. (How sweet...)

I'll be waiting — like the arse I am.

The Accidents

As you all know, I broke my leg in a boating mishap when I was seventeen. I was leaning over the rail and my leg got caught between the bars and I tripped backwards and fell in the water. It was a lot of fun because I spent two weeks in hospital eating crap food that made me throw up. Anyways, I also fell down a large set of concrete stairs last year and broke both my arms. I couldn't do anything for three weeks. And yeah, I also cut open my stomach on my Grandfather's farm in France. And guess what? I had to get thirty five stitches with no anesthetic. That was fun...

Once I fell off the roof of my friend's house. Harry and Anh Tu couldn't stop laughing and they threw paddle pops at my and I couldn't get up. I didn't break anything because I landed in the bushes. Yes, it was great.

Interesting, huh?

Philosophy and Existence Indeed

"How do you see life?"
"I see life as a romantically cynical adventure because I'm a romantic cynic."
He quivered momentarily with self-appreciation.
"How do you see life?" he asked.
"As something one lives," I answered, deciding against saying "with my eyes".
"And you call me a socialite," he said bitterly.
I nodded slowly.
"Now if you'll excuse me," he said, "I must go fuck a higher being."

The Joy of Flex

In a gym on the frayed fringes of town, I noticed, with a certain degree of uncertainty, a gangly man struggling with the bar bells. I approached, thinking he would be a nice distraction.
"Hello," I said, smiling.
He looked up at me with the eyes of a man who was lusting for malicious attention.
"Here," he said, "you need this more then I do."
He leapt up and made an insulting, swooping hand gesture towards the weights.
"It wouldn't kill you to brush your hair either," he added.
"Yes, but it might kill you," I retorted weakly.
He looked me up and down.
"You are no killer," he said.
"How would you know? Are you a killer?" I shot back.
He considered this a moment then began.
"Am I a killer? Well, I've never killed anything more heart-wrenching than a few flies and the occasional puppy, but who hasn't done that? The real question is, whether I'd be capable of killing. I think, unfortunately, that I could kill in the right circumstances. In my day to day life, I may be worryingly quiet, introverted, even mild-mannered as much as I hate the term, but when I get angry... instead of the nerd you consider me to be at this point, I become more coordinated, stronger, faster, angrier. At this time I could kill." he said.
This was the only point in my life where I seriously considered killing somebody. I didn't know how I'd do it, of course, but the thought was there.
"You do realise I don't care, don't you?" I said in a misjudged attempt at an insult.
"Meh," he shrugged.
God how I hated that word.
After that I resumed my normal life, doing my normal things and eating my three square normal meals a day. Then, fifty years later — when I was 72 — I decided I would have a bowl of cereal to start my day — rolled oats and milk with a few peaches, that is. It was a very spiriting day; the sun wasn't overly bright. Anyway, I was stuffing orange and white spoonfuls into my mouth and thinking about things, and the edge of things, when all of a sudden a large, displeasing sound flattened my sensitive ear-drums. I quickly got to my feat and ran out into my garden — which I hoped led nowhere. What I found was an uprooted tree across my lawn. Having a visual aid, I was much more shocked then you are now.
"Who would do such a thing?" I asked myself aloud — the only luxury of loneliness.
No one answered.
The next day I decided to invest my time — and a little of my money — into the space program and that, so to speak, is what I did. And it took me around four hours — which, I'll tell you, I wasn't fond of losing; but nevertheless I was happy to see my hard-earned seeds sprout. And no, I didn't kill anyone — I never killed anyone; and I don't believe I will. So this rocket of mine was — in my mind — being looked forward to. I decided against catching any diseases that week; I wanted to make sure I'd be around to see it.
I bought I dog. It was a very golden Labrador. It had nice, kind eyes and it ate the dog food I gave it.
I was still weak. I've always been weak. I enjoy being weak.
Then that rocket crashed into the moon — without me aboard. If I was on it, and in charge of something important, I could have killed somebody — though not on purpose.
The next day I made another bowl of breakfast but instead of sitting inside as I usually did, I sat out the back with my dog and we ate together.
The next next day I went into town and reacquainted myself with an acquaintance who talked in such a manner that I was unable to do anything but nod.
The following morning, I once again broke my fast with my dog — out the back.
I marvelled at two distinct forms of plagiarism and went nowhere.

A Minute Performance

"Hi," said he, his face glowing with warmth.
I nodded, but didn't return the favour. This seemed to irritate him.
"I know your kind," he said bitterly.
"Thank you," I said. "I like to think I am."



— I'd like to thank Tom for inspiring this line (for saying "I know your kind" to me, I mean) without which this joke would have never occurred to me.

Reasons To Be Interested Part Three

A quick scroll through my posts will soon inform you that I'm not worth bothering with; but, if you'll just hear me out, I may persuade you otherwise. Currently, I'm a nobody — like you. This may not always be the case though. I could be swept up in a tide of fame and rocketed swiftly to the relevant shortlist — I could become known. At the height of my celebrity you could confidently brag to your friends that you used to read my web log when I was a nobody. This near-insignificant piece of information could place you a few centre-metres closer to the upper echelons of fame. Is it worth the risk? Is it worth a few minutes of reading every couple of days? Perhaps when Kevin Burns (not Ken Burns) is making my sixty-minute biography, he'll ask you, the loyal fans from the very start, for comments.
"What first attracted you to read Hugh's blog?" he'd ask.
"He promised us fame," you'd recite robotically in unison.
The more ambitious of you would say something like: "He was a genius. Every word, every comma was perfect to the last drop." — though this may repel Kevin somewhat.
Yes, dear reader, I am offering you the easiest road to fame. No longer do you have to achieve something of worth or have a famous or incredibly rich relation. Now, for just a few hundred words a day, you can taste the good life. After all what's the point of living if nobody notices you?

Second Time Round

Well, I'm back. I felt compelled to add something more substantial to site. Now let's see... All right, as you all probably know, people in power — at least 103% of them — are more often then not mean, unintelligent and ruthless. How's that for vague? The solution to this whole mess (subjective, I know) is to put the disinterested in power. We could also put the uninterested in power, but that wouldn't necessarily help matters. Unfortunately for us, disinterested people are somewhat of a rarity. It is, after all, impossible to be completely disinterested. But if we do, in fact, find such a creature, we would need him or her to be without opinion on every matter — which, as you no doubt know, is utterly, utterly impossible. Which means I'm just another person offering naive views to the choir. So let's just settle for Everybody's Wrong.

And so, as he passed through the doors, he was greeted almost warmly with a few nods of acknowledgement from the people therein. This was certainly enough to keep him almost happy throughout the day and almost without resentment at the thought of going back again tomorrow. It wasn't, however, enough to make him drink the appalling instant coffee with his workmates.

The First Postman

Well here I am. Please accept the fact that this is a first post and I won't have anything particularly interesting to say (also accept the fact that I may not ever have anything interesting to say). Anyway, hello — and, well, goodbye. I think I'll break a bottle on something to celebrate the occasion.